Mired in centuries-old customs and rigid traditions carried over from their mortal lives, the chaing-shih elders of New York’s Chinatown don’t quite know how to deal with the upstart Russian vampire, Mistress Viktoria. With their existence in danger, the Elders call upon an ancient blood tie and summon the aid of their kinsman, Liu Sakurai.

Though he appears to the world as a sensual young man in his mid-twenties, Sakurai is one of the oldest and most powerful chaing-shih to walk the Earth. He sees humans as not much more than weak playthings and food, and no one is more surprised than Sakurai himself when NYPD Detective Daisuke Matsui manages to capture his attention. Dai is a strong one, full of an inner fire and unusual sexual appetites that Sakurai cannot resist.

In the mysterious and arrogant vampire, Dai finds the type of person he's been longing for his entire life--someone with a strength of will and determination that matches his own, and a skill to dominate him in ways that make him burn. While trying to unwind the ties his half-brother has to Chinatown’s underworld, Dai is confronted by creatures and events he thought only existed in the legends and stories told by old men. His life is on the line, along with everything he holds dear, but Sakurai’s dark whispers promise a passion Dai is powerless to resist

Adrian turned his passion for action figures into a thriving comic shop, The Fantastic Five. After spending most of his life in the world of super heroes and aliens, he’s not surprised when the action figure he’s repairing comes to life. He’s more surprised by the instant attraction he feels to the man—and the fact that it’s mutual. These guys are supposed to be Real American heroes. But right now, Adrian wants him to be his hero.

Mack’s waited a long time for a reward. He’s come back wounded from a brutal mission, but the Toymaker upstairs promised him a new life and a new mission. When Adrian repairs his broken body, his gentle touch also repairs Mack’s broken heart. Now it’s Mack’s turn to repay Adrian, by teaching him about living your wildest fantasies and making your dreams come true.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

It’s a backlist title of mine, but I wanted to pimp Shorts today for two reasons. One, it’s really the book that jump-started my career, in many ways. And two, it’s now available as a wireless download from Amazon’s Kindle Store.

In 2005, I was stuck two-thirds of the way through my then WIP, Stepping Up to the Plate. I refused to begin a new novel with one languishing unfinished (I thought if I started something new, I’d never get back to the first book), so I began to write short stories. Several of them appeared online at Ruthie’s Club, an online erotica zine.

By the summer of 2006, I realized it had been a while since I last published something. At this stage of the game, I was self-publishing two books a year, with the exception of the dry spell I suffered during 2005. I figured I better get my AIG and get another book out, but all I had on hand were short stories.

Well, so be it. I’d release a collection of short stories, then. I had 11 I had published through Ruthie’s, and quickly wrote another three to round out the book.

Around this time, an editor contacted me about possibly working with her newly formed publishing house, Aspen Mountain Press. I don’t remember if I was already working on Shorts at the time or not, but I was too sold on the idea of self-publishing the collection that I ended up submitting a different book to them.

But Shorts still helped me get my name out there. This was the first book I submitted to online review sites, which earned me a few new readers. And it also put me in touch with editor Richard Labonte, to whom I sent a review copy, and who promptly asked me to submit something for his Country Boys anthology. Since then, I’ve had stories appear in two of his anthologies, with another two stories coming out in anthologies to be released this year.

So in all, Shorts really provided a much-needed boost to my still budding career. The collection contains 14 erotic short stories, 11 of which were first published online at Ruthie’s Club. Two of them have been published in other anthologies (”Best Friends” in My First Time Volume 5 and, coming later this year, “Hooking Up” in Boys in Heat). One of the stories was re-released in e-book format as part of my ongoing Working Man series (”Easily Addicted”).

The stories run the gamut from contemporary to sci-fi, fetish to pulp … there’s something for everyone in Shorts.

The excerpt below is from one of my favorite stories in the collection. “Escape” was written for Ruthie’s Club’s science fiction issue. Trace is an intergalactic prisoner whose ship crash-lands on a planet inhabited by a type of clone or replicate called Delta-23. Davin, one of the replicates, has abandoned his fellow replicates to seek out the escaped prisoner alone because he’s never seen anyone who looked different from himself.

This is their meeting …

NOTE: contains sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

“Escape”

When heated lips covered his, Trace opened his eyes, panicked, before he realized he was being kissed, not suffocated or silenced. An insistent tongue licked the corner of his mouth, seeking entry. How long had it been since he’d been kissed so gently, so tenderly? Years. Before his stint in prison, at least.

The chin above him was hairless and strong and masculine, and Trace gave in to the sensation, closing his eyes again as he let the tongue in. It flicked over his teeth, the inside of his cheeks, his own tongue, before it licked away over his lips and chin. Small kisses soft along his jaw, wet lips closing over his earlobe, a man’s breath in his ear.

Trace brought one hand up from his crotch to feel the close-cropped hair of his visitor, and his fingers found the small tagged piercing high up in one ear that was the mark of a replicate. Opening his eyes again, he leaned back as the man kissed his neck, trying to see more. Slim body beneath a silver and blue jumpsuit, one hand by Trace’s head steadying him above with the other buried in a pocket, ending at an obscene bulge at the crotch. Not an Alpha-10 -- too thin. Into the ear close to his mouth, Trace breathed, “Psi-45? Are you …”

“Delta-23,” the other whispered between kisses. His lips left hot, damp trails along Trace’s collarbone. “The name’s Davin. You’re the first natural-born I’ve ever seen.”

With a laugh, Trace teased, “That explains the special treatment.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Davin sighed.

Trace laughed again because he knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t about to argue. Between his legs, his fingers massaged his balls. His hard dick was beginning to ache.

“I'm Trace,” he murmured -- might as well know each other before they went much farther.

Davin’s reply was to swirl his tongue around one of Trace’s nipples, which made Trace’s cock stand up on its own. Davin moved a little further, kissing down to Trace’s navel so the top of his head was just inches from Trace’s erection. With both hands, Trace found the zipper on the jumpsuit above him and tugged it back. Davin’s undershirt billowed down and Trace slipped his hands beneath it, feeling his way over smooth muscles. He’d been with a replicate before, but not a Delta. When his fingers found hard nipples and pinched them, the mouth on his stomach gasped with delight.

Davin moved lower, using both hands now to hold himself above Trace. He nuzzled the kinked hair at Trace’s crotch, then kissed up his hard length. Pulling down Davin’s zipper as far as it would go, Trace rubbed the sheathed package above him, underwear already damp enough to outline the tip of Davin’s dick. Trace raised himself up on his elbows to press his face against the sex-scented briefs, then nipped at the cock above him. Between Trace’s legs, Davin took him into his mouth. He tongued the swollen tip of Trace’s cock before licking down to the end of the shaft and up again. He went down a second time and Trace rose up to meet him, easing further in. One of Davin’s hands cupped Trace’s ass, the fingers fumbling between his cheeks enough to weaken Trace’s knees.

Hungry with lust, Trace reached up and pulled down Davin’s underwear, exposing a thick dick that unfurled before him and heavy balls that he tongued and kissed. Starting at the base of Davin’s cock, Trace kneaded the length with his lips. When he worked his way to the tip, he licked and toyed with the supple knob, trying to take it into his mouth without repositioning himself. He couldn’t quite get it -- he nudged it with his nose and caught it in his lips, but it was slick with his own saliva and slipped free to hang above him, tantalizing and dripping with pre-cum.

Trace licked at the salty drops as he thrust into the hot, willing mouth around his own erection. Davin’s rhythm increased, pulling Trace towards orgasm, one hand now squeezing the hard cock as he sucked the bulbous head. Trace’s release was mere strokes away. He raised up on his elbows again, took Davin’s soft balls into his mouth, rolled them around on his tongue as he came in short, quick bursts that jerked through him like lightning. Sated, Trace pushed the replicate to the ground, straddled him, and took the elusive cock into his mouth fully until Davin bucked beneath him in release.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Well, since I'm not scheduled for another blog day here until the week after my next release, I thought I would go ahead and share an excerpt of the novella I have coming out on March 4th.

Eye Candy is the sequel to Man Candy, and the story of Logan's twin brother, Jake. A lot of people have emailed asking for his story and I'm thrilled to announce it's finally going to be released with Loose ID next week.

Blurb:

Humiliated by his first love, Jake Remora has no intention of ever making himself vulnerable to that kind of pain again. Life is good, until Kane Sharp moves home and stirs up old memories Jake would rather forget.

Love is a fool’s game Jake Remora has no intention of ever playing again. He works hard, plays even harder, and leaves a string of easy lovers in his wake. Having his first lover move home and resurrect long-dormant emotions is the last thing he ever expected … or wanted.

Just as things reignite between the lovers, a new scandal of sexual impropriety arises. Past and present collide in a clash of rumor and speculation, jeopardizing any hope of a shared future the two men might hope to build.

Jake Remora stormed into the antique store, Time and Again, with a scowl on his face. Bells chimed noisily overhead as he entered; the door slapped shut behind him with a loud thump.

The proprietor, Sam Goode, was a contrary asshole two clicks shy of being older than God and twice as ornery. Sam had left a message on Jake’s cell phone, claiming there were delays in the arrival of the antique French Burl armoire he’d ordered for one of his clients. Since Jake was counting on that piece to finish up a project, he was not a happy camper. He didn’t appreciate having to make excuses for why he was late finishing a job. Interior Design by Jake was his baby; he couldn’t allow someone to fuck with its reputation. Heads were going to roll if there wasn’t a damn good reason for the holdup.

He stomped toward the front counter, his gaze combing the small interior of the shop. Although he vaguely recalled an open sign on the front door, and the inside lights were on, not a single sign of life stirred within the building. Quiet as a grave, the air was redolent of old books and wood, lending to the tomblike atmosphere.

Undeterred, Jake reached the waist-high counter and leaned across it. “Hey, Sam! Quit hiding in the back, and get your crusty old ass out here. I need the piece I ordered.”

A door slammed, followed immediately by silence. Impatience thrummed through him as he stood upright and tapped the rounded toe of his new, chocolate-colored leather Gucci biker boots on the chipped linoleum floor. “Come on, man. I don’t have all day.” A blemish on the cuff of his white cashmere sweater caught his attention. He picked at the navy-colored stain, disgusted to see what looked like ink on his clothing.

Christ. Can’t people clean up after them-fucking-selves? The sound of footsteps reached Jake’s ears. He looked up, expecting to see Sam coming through the door in his trademark overalls and red flannel shirt. Instead, a young blond wearing a black T-shirt and ragged jeans pushed through the swinging door. Judging by the lack of lines around the man’s wide blue eyes and a hint of light brown stubble on the lower half of his round face, Jake guessed him to be in his early twenties.

“I’m sorry you had to wait. It seems like no one ever comes in until I have to take a leak.” The blond grinned, and sweet, little dimples appeared on either side of his plump, pink lips. “What can I do for you?”

Drop to your knees and open wide, was on the tip of Jake’s tongue. “I wasn’t waiting long.” He thrust his hand across the counter. “I’m Jake. And you are?”The young man maintained eye contact as he took Jake’s hand in his own and gave it a firm shake. The rough pads of his fingers lingered as he slowly pulled away. “I’m Jimmy, Sam’s grandson. Pops had to leave early today -- he had a doctor appointment -- but I can help you with whatever you need.”

I’m sure you can. “I need to check on the status of an order I placed a while back for an armoire.” Suddenly, throwing a bitch-fit didn’t seem quite so urgent. After all, it wasn’t as if a few choice words would make the piece of furniture appear any faster.

“Um, okay. I’m afraid Pops doesn’t believe in updating the store for the twenty-first century, so he doesn’t have a computer that lists his inventory. If you can describe it though, I could go into the back and take a look around for you. See if it’s in.”

“Or, better yet,” Jake interrupted, “I could just come back with you. We could both look for it.” And see what comes up in the interim. “That would be easier than describing the armoire. Quicker, too.”

Jimmy cast a glance back at the storeroom and then at Jake. He blushed. “I’m not so sure about that. Pops doesn’t like for anyone to mess around with his things.”

“I wouldn’t have to touch anything, unless you want me to.” Jake met Jimmy’s gaze, held it, and licked his lips suggestively, testing the waters. He could be way off base, but the curious gleam in Jimmy’s eyes spoke of more than casual interest. The blushing was cute, and a dead giveaway that the other man was interested. “No one has to find out about anything that happens while Sam’s out.” The old man would shit a cookie if he found out his grandson was batting for Jake’s team. Homophobic jackass.

Jimmy blinked. A flush crept up his neck and steadily spread across his cheeks. “I…um…”

“I’m really good at keeping secrets, Jimmy.”

Straight white teeth bit into the plump center of Jimmy’s lower lip. He nodded. “Follow me.” He turned and walked through the door. Jake followed, his dick swelling to attention as his gaze locked on the prize snuggled beneath faded denim.

Jimmy had a fabulous ass: high and tight, like two firm peaches. The analogy made him wonder if Jimmy’s cheeks would be covered in fuzz or bare. He always preferred to fuck a smooth ass, but he wasn’t choosy. As long as it was attached to a healthy, attractive man, he was game. Living in a town full of horny college students certainly had its perks, and he wasn’t above indulging himself in whatever he could get his hands on.

Jake waited until the door swung shut behind them before he pounced. He crowded Jimmy against the wall, cupped his jaw in one hand, and moved in for a kiss. He’d no more than pressed their lips together when Jimmy pushed against his chest.

“Stop. Nothing personal, but I don’t kiss.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Jake felt a little puckish as he spun Jimmy around to face the wall. If the kid didn’t want to kiss, who was he to force it on him? They’d just skip the pleasantries and get right down to it.

He buried his face in the curve of Jimmy’s throat and licked a long path from the base of his neck up to the meaty lobe of his ear. Mmm…salty. Jimmy smelled of soap, wood, and light hint of sweat -- musky and damn near perfect. If there was a better scent in the world, Jake would have been hard-pressed to think of one.

“Don’t leave a mark,” Jimmy whispered, grinding his ass back against the front of Jake’s slacks.

“I won’t.” Jake reached around Jimmy, intent on ridding the younger man of his excess clothing, and found Jimmy’s fly already open. He peeked over the other man’s shoulder and saw a well-proportioned cock, cut and a little on the thin side, jutting above the waistband of plain tighty whiteys. Jimmy grasped the base of his narrow shaft and worked it up and down.

Jimmy shot a sultry look over his shoulder. “Like it?”

“You’ll do.” Jake gave him a wink, grabbed the sides of Jimmy’s pants, and tugged them and his underwear down in one fell swoop. The pert ass he revealed -- the cheeks so firm and tight they clung together and hid the valley between -- was almost enough to bring him to his knees.

“Nice,” he commented, his hands already at the clasp of his slacks. Locked inside its cloth cage, Jake’s prick was more than ready to be set free.

Jake hastily pulled a condom and pillow pack of lube from his right front pocket, while his other hand worked the release on his pants. He unzipped and tugged his dick and balls out, letting the heavy weight of his sac rest atop the elastic band of his boxer briefs. He shoved his bare dick in the furrow between Jimmy’s taut cheeks, relishing the immense heat pouring from the other man’s skin as he rubbed against him. “Want me?” God knew he was about to burst he was so ready to bury himself inside the other man. Jimmy was hot for it, and just his type -- easy.

Go me, Jake thought, as he backed, allowing himself enough room to work with the condom. I’ve barely touched him, and he’s already reduced to two-word sentences.

With steady hands, he rolled the condom down over his shaft and secured it at the base. He tore the lube packet open and squeezed out half its contents into his palm, smearing the slick goo over his dick. He enjoyed the feel of his hand around his stiff prick for half a second before the lure of burying himself balls deep inside the tempting ass in front of him regained prominence.

“Spread your ass for me,” Jake demanded, wringing the last of the lube into his cupped hand.

Jimmy’s forehead and shoulder thumped the wall as he pulled his cheeks apart, four thick fingers framing the tender pink skin of his crease. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Jake groaned, his gaze locked on the rosette of Jimmy’s anus and the sparse whirl of light brown hair surrounding the crinkled pucker. “Fuck. I love your ass,” he murmured then worked the remaining lube over and into the tight little hole with one finger. Too impatient to use much finesse, he quickly added another. Slick heat gripped his fingers and squeezed, giving his dick a preview of how damn tight it would be once he got inside the other man’s passage. He gave his fingers a twist, searching…

“Never let it be said that I left a man wanting.” Jake pulled his fingers out with a wet squelch and lined up his prick. His pulse skipped a beat, taking in the way the broad head of his cock loomed over Jimmy’s tiny hole, ready to split it open. He pushed all the way in with one steady shove, watching as his cock disappeared, inch by slow, pleasurable inch.

God, that was hot.

He grunted as sweet pressure sucked at his shaft like a hungry mouth, and pressed up against the other man’s broad back. “Damn, you’re tight.” Kissing the sensitive dip under Jimmy’s ear, he asked, “Feel good?”

“Yeah. Move. Give it to me.”

“You got it.” Jake got a good grip on Jimmy’s narrow waist and held on as he inched his hips backward until the flared rim of his cock stopped him. Jimmy’s asshole also resisted his effort to disengage their bodies. He lunged back inside, hard and fast, and then did it again, setting a violent pace that made his dick ache and his balls bounce. Jimmy worked with him, pushing back into every thrust and whimpering for more. Jake’s dick felt like it was being crushed inside the tight inferno. Fuck, it felt good. He rolled his hips and propelled his dick in and out, over and again, and chased the orgasm hovering just out of reach.

“Christ.” Jimmy bucked, the walls of his ass undulating around Jake’s shaft. One of Jimmy’s hands slammed into the wall and fisted against the drywall, bracing his weight, as the other sped up along his cock and jerked it in short, rough yanks. “Right there, man. Harder.”

Making a mental note of where “right there” was, Jake made it his personal goal to pound the shit out of that spot. He kept at it, working Jimmy’s ass for all the sensation he could get. Perspiration beaded on his face and neck, his sweater growing damp. He powered in and out, his lungs bellowing as he moved faster, putting everything he had into each thrust.

His balls began to burn and lift, pressure building inside him. “God,” Jake whispered. “I’m close. Gonna come.” Leaving one hand on Jimmy’s hip for leverage, Jake reached around Jimmy with the other and latched onto his slender, upthrust cock with a firm grip. They tugged together in long, full strokes.

Jake panted, so close to coming, but determined to hold off until he felt the other man climax first. Just when he didn’t think he was going to make it -- his balls felt like they were trying to crawl inside his groin, and his dick swollen passed the point of no return -- Jimmy’s ass clenched around his cock. Contractions squeezed his shaft in time with the slick pulses of fluid spurting over his hand.

Thank fuck. Jake closed his eyes, his mind drained of everything but the need to come, and shoved home. He bucked, jerking as the first wave of release rushed over him, and let his load fly inside the snug grip of the condom.

Jake was the first to recover. He eased out of Jimmy’s ass -- the other man’s whimper almost enough to tempt him into asking for a second go-round -- and pulled himself together. “You okay?”

Jimmy didn’t budge from where he leaned against the wall, panting. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

Okay. Jake divested himself of the used condom, wrinkling his nose at the mess, and tied it off. He left his wet dick hanging out of his slacks. “Uh, is there a bathroom back here I can use?”

Jake was a little unnerved by the way the guy refused to look at him, but it wasn’t the first time he’d slept with someone who didn’t want to talk afterward. It probably wouldn’t be the last. Hit-it-and-quit-it sex was prevalent for a reason, even if this encounter wasn’t quite of the anonymous variety.

He toddled into the bathroom and cleaned up. When he came out, Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. Jake thought about looking for him, just to see if he was okay, but figured what the hell. Jimmy was a big boy, and Jake hadn’t been all that rough with him. If the dude had wanted to face him, he wouldn’t have disappeared.

Jake walked out of the shop into the brisk, spring sunshine and headed for his truck. He may not have gotten the armoire he went in for, but the recompense had been damn fine.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Ally's latest manlove angstfest, Untamed Heart! (Cover art by the amazing, stupendous, and entirely fabulous Anne Cain!)Not to sound conceited or anything, but this is my personal favorite of my own books thus far. I hope everyone else loves it as much as I do :D

Blurb:

Revenge can’t heal a wounded soul.

When Leon Fisher finds his lover butchered in their bed, he does what any good assassin would do—he gets revenge. But killing the murderer doesn’t make the pain go away. Instead, it sends him on a vicious downward spiral into alcoholism and depression.

In a bid to force Leon to sober up and regain his edge, his mysterious employers—known only as “the organization”—send him to a private property in the wilds of Alaska. In the lush and remote Tongass National Forest, Leon encounters Grim, a strange but alluring young man who saves Leon’s life after a bear attack, then brings him to a cabin in the depths of the woods to recover.

Leon doesn’t expect to fall in love with this odd, subservient person, yet he can’t deny what he comes to feel for Grim. But Grim has a past he doesn’t talk about. A past just as dark and ugly as Leon’s. And both pasts are about to catch up with them.

BLURB:Adrian turned his passion for action figures into a thriving comic shop, The Fantastic Five. After spending most of his life in the world of super heroes and aliens, he’s not surprised when the action figure he’s repairing comes to life. He’s more surprised by the instant attraction he feels to the man—and the fact that it’s mutual. These guys are supposed to be Real American heroes. But right now, Adrian wants him to be his hero.Mack’s waited a long time for a reward. He’s come back wounded from a brutal mission, but the Toymaker upstairs promised him a new life and a new mission. When Adrian repairs his broken body, his gentle touch also repairs Mack’s broken heart. Now it’s Mack’s turn to repay Adrian, by teaching him about living your wildest fantasies and making your dreams come true.EXCERPT:Adrian blinked as the numbers on the spreadsheet blurred. Automatically, he reached for his tepid mug of coffee, wincing at its chill. He’d calculated the numbers backwards and forwards, not liking the decline they showed. Just past January first, he should have showed a boost in fourth quarter sales. After all, they had the holidays, then the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day to spend holiday money. Comics had been flying off the shelves. Several hot new releases had patrons queuing in line even before The Fantastic Five had opened.

Adrian shook his head. He rose to his feet, his gaze catching, as it often did, on the broken action figure sitting on the corner of his desk. The man sat there, his feet lost probably during some child’s “battle”. One hand had been almost torn from its wrist. Looking at it, he couldn’t tell, but Adrian knew if he picked up the figure, started to move the jointed limbs, he’d find the tear. He’d intended to start working on it tonight.

“Sorry, buddy,” he said, then smiled when he realized he spoke to a toy.

Adrian stood. He reached for his mug, not quite able to pull his attention from the figure. Adrian had found this toy in a box at a garage sale a few blocks over while out on his run. Although the figure had a production date in the mid-nineties, something about the toy had drawn Adrian. Normally, he wasn’t overly fond of the modern figures.

The plastic soldier sat there, stubble covering his cheeks and jaw. It gave him a surly look, as if he were a grizzled soldier who barked orders at his men all day. Short, dark brown hair was cut with military precision. His brows were dark slashes over his piercing blue eyes. Broad shoulders, perfectly muscled body, he looked like the real American hero his now long-gone packaging had declared him to be.

“As soon as I get through these numbers I’ll take care of you.” Adrian frowned at his nearly-empty mug. The clock on his computer told him it was after ten pm. Way too late to continue the caffeine drip he’d been on all day. If only he could pinpoint the source of the store’s drop in earnings. Then, he’d have some answers for his friends and partners.

Not that they needed them. Dean would be leaving for a windsurfing vacation tomorrow. Van and Hugh trusted him with the day-to-day operations of the store. Hugh worked on marketing and promotion. Van provided legal assistance and spent a lot of his time scouring for action figures to restore. The Field Medic operated as a subdivision of their store restoring vintage and modern action figures.

With a shake of his head, Adrian went to the kitchen. Moments later he returned with a cold bottle of water.

“Forget about the numbers,” a whisky-rough voice said in his mind.

Adrian stared at the figure. He’d been known to make jokes about what toys would say if they were real. But this was real enough as to be spooky. The voice sounded exactly like he guessed the toy would sound, a kind of Tommy Lee Jones commanding tone that always made Adrian’s cock stand at attention. He debated about answering, but decided what the hell, he was only talking to a toy. No one needed to know. “I’d like to,” he replied. “Then again, if you were real, there are a lot of things I’d like to do.”

Adrian allowed his mind to wander, imagining the figure as a real flesh and blood man. He figured he slipped deeper into a sex-deprived insanity with his musings, but it’d been ages since he’d been laid. Adrian knew he would drag his fingers through the man’s silken hair. The figure’s broad chest demanded an exploration with lips and fingers. Long, muscled legs and a tight ass. Just thinking about how he would look had Adrian’s cock hardening. He reached down and cupped his hand over it. His erection strained the denim.

“What do you want to do?” That gravelly voice filled his head again.

Adrian wanted to put those lips to better use. He shook his head. Damn it, he had numbers to go over and a plan to create. He didn’t have time for idle fantasies.

“Give me half an hour, all right?” Adrian arched an eyebrow at the mute figure.

“All right,” the voice barked back.

Adrian gulped half the water bottle down. Capping it, he turned away from the figure that had possessed so much of his thoughts. He should be focusing on his business. He must be losing it if he were having a fake conversation with a broken action figure. Rubbing his eyes, he vowed he’d get through these numbers come hell or high water. Or the distractions of a certain action figure sitting on the corner of his desk.

What he needed was to get laid. His dick swelled just thinking about a wet, willing mouth. The heavy length of a tongue stroking him, watching a man hollow his cheeks as he sucked hard. Adrian sighed. Yeah, that was exactly what he needed.

“Me, too, man,” the gravelly voice replied.

“Will you stop it?” Adrian asked. He snarled, realizing he’d copied the same column of figures three times. “Focus. You can do this.”

“I could do you.”

Adrian whirled in his desk chair. He was going fucking nuts! Some claimed masturbation caused dementia and blindness. Perhaps that was his fault. He’d hand-jobbed himself into a psych ward. He snorted, thinking his friends would laugh at that. They were always telling him to quit being so picky and just pick up a man. They teased him that he was like the profit and loss sheets he worked with.

Okay, that was it. One more pass through the numbers, and that was it. He had to get out of here.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

And Coming Soon to Print through MLR Press! You’ll find it on Amazon.com and other fine book retailers.

Blurb:

Nick O'Mallley is an agent for the Nevada Gaming Commission. He's also a Goth with a hearse he's restoring, and an ex lover he's only just getting over. Brandon Carr is a cop with the Riverside PD. Lucky for him, he's in Vice where his tattoos and biker boy looks serve him well. The two meet at a Goth convention in San Diego and the sparks fly immediately. So much so that a weekend fling turns into more and Brandon spends his four day weekend visiting Nick.

Things aren't all sparks and roses though: the two do live a four hour drive apart, and Brandon's not out. Add to that a murder right in front of them, a company trying to cheat the system and the Mexican Mafia, and Brandon and Nick's relationship will need to overcome a whole slew of obstacles in order to work.

Despite everything, can Brandon and Nick make a go of it? Taken a chance on these two and find out.

Excerpt:

Nick let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Nope. Wasn’t. I’ll let you have a second chance though.” Opening the door to the patio Nick drew a cig out of the pack, “Ahh, the smell of Goth in the evening… cloves.”

“Need a light?” Brandon looked up and smiled again. Man, he had a nice smile.

Nick nodded. “Yeah, if ya got one.” He stepped out onto the little patio savoring the cool air off the ocean. Two lawn chairs and a cocktail table graced the small space. San Diego was nice; Nick had always liked it. This hotel was nice. Each room had its own little private patio with half a wall capped by a rail forming the balcony. The ones towards the front were open to the parking lot. This one looked over the small beach and out onto the marina.

Brandon fished a lighter off the clutter on the desk and tossed it through the door. “Sure, here ya go. Can I have a drag?”

“Didn’t bring any skirts... oh you mean the smoke...” As Brandon walked through carrying two drinks, he traded one for the cig and took a swallow. It was stronger than the ones at the club.

Brandon took a puff and blew a smoke ring. “I have only one skirt, actually a kilt, but I prefer chaps.” He dropped into one of the chairs.

“But do you wear it like a Scotsman?” Nick shot the comment into the night as he took a seat as well. “Chaps are cool... you ride?”

“I like to be ridden.” Nick almost choked on his drink. Brandon laughed and handed the clove back. “Oh, you mean bikes, right? Yeah I have a Harley-74. How ‘bout you?”

“A crappy rice burner and a fix up hearse.” Nick was relaxing into the teasing. It had been a while since he teased like this. “Once I get through all the rust there may be a car under it. Bikes are rather sexy though. Guys who ride bikes are rather sexy.”

“Even guys who ride rice rockets.”

A lot of Harley riders didn’t believe that the Japanese had ever actually made a motorcycle. Nick’s tone was a little apologetic. “Hey, it gets me around, saves on gas, doesn’t take up space in the garage.”

“How’s that drink? Need anything else?” As dark as it was outside, Nick couldn’t tell if Brandon was smiling, but he bet Brandon was. “Let me have another hit off your cig.”

One of Nick’s boots was up on the table, the other knee was slung out to the side. Offering up the cig, Nick held it level with his bent knee so that Brandon would have to come in for it. “I could use another drink.”

“You’re not just blowing smoke now are you?” Instead of just reaching, Brandon leaned forward and took a drag as Nick held it. He blew the smoke along the line of Nick’s leg. It swirled near his crotch before dissipating. “Drink number two coming up; rum and coke again?” Rising and walking back into the room towards the mini bar, the biker took off his shirt and tossed it on a chair. “It is getting a little hot in here."

“It’s the leather.” Nick leaned over to look through the door. His pulse was keeping time to the industrial beat. Watching Brandon’s half dressed form move about in the dim light was intoxicating. Tats crawled from his arms across his back, lines weaving in and under each other in a dizzying labyrinth of ink. “It makes you sweat.” He could smell the leather from out on the patio. It blended nicely with the breeze and the cloves and the rum.

“Yeah, that and other things.” Brandon leaned his trim frame against the door jamb. He obviously worked out, but not to an extreme; enough definition to be model sexy. “Here’s your drink.” He held it out and shook it so that the ice rattled.

Nick grinned in response as he took the offered drink. “Course velvet ain’t much better.” As he took the last drag on the clove, he added. “Want another?

“If you got one.”

“In my shirt pocket.”

Brandon bent down to grab the pack from Nick’s pocket. “Is this it?” He fumbled around a bit stroking Nick’s chest through his shirt.

“No, that’s my sister’s tit.” He laughed. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“I thought that was a little hard.” Brandon laughed as well as he pulled a smoke from the pack with his teeth. Leaning over, he chain lit it from the dying ember still in Nick’s mouth.

Damn the boy’s eyes were so blue. Nick could think of a thousand things he could do with that mouth if a cigarette wasn’t in it. Instead he flicked his butt over the rail and sucked on an ice cube, “Still hot?”

As Brandon took a deep pull off the clove cig, he moved in close. “Always.” His hands were braced on the arms of the chair as he leaned over. The nearness of him made Nick tremble. Taking the cig out of his mouth, he blew the smoke in between Nick’s parted lips. “Adds new meaning to the term second-hand smoke, doesn’t it?” Brandon teased and moved in closer. “Want anything else?” One hand ventured down to caress Nick’s thigh.

Oh God, did he want something else. He couldn’t breathe waiting for Brandon’s lips to touch his. Nick’s tongue was still cold from the ice as he slipped it inside Brandon’s hot mouth. He could taste the cloves and the rum.

Brandon’s hand slid up his leg, stopping briefly to toy with Nick’s hard bulge. Desire was thrumming through his veins. Exploring fingers worked his shirt from under the cincher. They danced with his nerves. Fumbling with the buttons and trying to shuck the jacket and shirt without breaking contact, Nick whispered against sensuous lips, “You… out of those jeans. The chaps can stay.” He was being silly. It was what happened when he got drunk.

“Anything you want.” Brandon stood and unbuckled the chaps. One leg went up on the table. Then he slowly slid the zipper open down the inner thigh of each leg. The sucking sound of leather coming off too hot a body gave Nick chills. Smiling down on Nick, Brandon started to unbutton the fly of his jeans and slide them off his hips.

“Crap, out here on the balcony?” Nick hissed.

“Sure, why not?” As the chaps slid from Brandon’s legs, he flipped his head towards the marina. “Who’s going to care -- seagulls?” Fingers hooked through both his jeans and briefs, and inch by inch, Brandon revealed himself. His wicked smile darted over his lips the entire time. Brandon was enjoying putting on the show.

Damn, Brandon’s dick was hard. Of course, so was Nick’s own at this point. Oh man, the guy’s cock was beautiful, thick and shaved. “True.” That one word throbbed with Nick’s desire. Brandon toed out of his boots and stepped out of his pants. Kicking them to the side, he grabbed the chaps and stepped back into his boots. “What are you doing?”

Laughing, Brandon fastened the leather about his legs. “You said you wanted me to leave the chaps on, didn’t you?”

Nick swallowed and nodded. Oh, Christ, talk about fantasies. Brandon leaned over him again, kissing his chest, sucking on his nipples, fumbling with the fly on Nick’s jeans. The claw of the metal as the teeth gave way echoed in the pit of Nick’s stomach. “Is this what you want?”

“Oh, hell, yeah!” Nick could barely breathe he wanted it so much. “That and everything else.” His own fingers found the back zippers on his boots, yanking them off as fast as he could manage. As Brandon’s mouth worked at lighting fires under his skin, he struggled to get his trousers down. Fuck, why had he worn something so tight? Another pair of hands joined in the effort, peeling the fabric from his legs.

Brandon knelt down before him. “Commando?” he teased, “that makes things convenient.” Trembling, Nick watched as Brandon took his cock in one strong hand and ran his tongue along the tip. The touch bubbled Nick’s skin. “I like the way you taste.” Brandon’s tongue traveled down Nick’s length. Then he licked Nick’s shaved sac. Nick wasn’t as bare as Brandon, but he kept it all pretty clean. It made everything so much more sensitive. That strong hand was stroking his cock as Brandon pulled his balls into the hot mouth and began to suck.

“God, yeah,” Nick groaned. “Suck on me.” Brandon’s tongue flicked across his balls and traveled about the area just underneath them. Nick was enjoying the ride. He liked having someone go down him. His last partner hadn’t been especially giving. And God, doing it out on the patio where anyone might see them, it was thrilling.

“Tell me what you want.” It took a moment for Brandon’s words to register.

The thought of that blue eyed boy pounding him made Nick shiver. “What do you think I want?” A hard, hot cock stroking his insides… Nick’s blood pulsed with need. His skin tingled at the thought of it. “Oh shit, my wallet is in my pants.

Brandon paused. “What the hell do you need that for?”

Nick laughed. “No glove no love, baby.” He might have been three sheets to the wind, but he wasn’t suicidal.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

The hos (also known as my critique group) got together last night. After we discussed many ways to pull my work in progress out of the fire, I told them what scene I had planned next. They immediately staged an intervention. "Fish are friends, not food" Oops, sorry, wrong story.

My intervention went like this "You cannot write another sex scene! I don’t care if it’s erotica, no more sex in this book." What happened to making I statements? One fellow ho who does substance abuse counseling recommended that I take the first step in the program. "I admit I am powerless over my addiction to writing male/male sex scenes and my story has become unmanageable."

I love my fellow hos. I do. I wouldn’t be here without them. But I have to ask, what makes a reader pick up (or download) an erotica? I’m not saying I don’t love traditional romance, even the ones with the will-they-or-won’t-they sexual tension that has you screaming in frustration by the time they finally do it. After which you lose interest. (Moonlighting, anyone?) To me an erotica is a story where much of the emotional growth and conflict is expressed either in the sex scenes or results from the sex scenes. If I want a traditionally plotted romance—no matter what the sensuality level—I know where to find one. When I want sex to be an important component in the story, I want to know where to find that, too.

Which leads me to an even more important question: If you’re selling something that’s labeled male/male erotica, who’s buying it? Some of our readers come from traditional romance. Some come to us from slash fanfiction. What keeps them coming back for more? The easy answer is that you can’t please everyone, but how much sex is too much sex in an erotica?

I think I will take that first step, but slightly altered. "I admit I am powerless over the voices in my head that send me words and pictures that make up the story of two men who have such amazing chemistry that no matter what other issues they face, they can’t keep their hands off each other." Hmmm. I do feel better now.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Case in point: You know you've got it when your first thought upon seeing a stuffed toy monkey is that it is gay. Honestly, look at this monkey and tell me I'm wrong.

My friend got this little fellow in her box at work. Bear in mind she works in a toy store so there's nothing unusual in that. She brought him to dance rehearsal last Tuesday and showed him off because, let's face it, he's a pretty quirky monkey. That disgruntled expression. That vest with a cape like a sailor suit. The inexplicable fur on his inner thighs. So I looked at this little guy and promptly announced, "This is the gayest monkey I have ever seen!" And proceeded to create an identity and backstory for him. His name is Garth. His boyfriend is named Ashley. The reason for the look of disgruntlement? Ashley's sick and therefore cannot accompany Garth to the Flying Monkey Ball. I do hope that Ashley is better soon so that they can attend Gay Bingo next week.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

This story, featuring my superhero characters (Vic and Matt), was offered free on my Yahoo! group during my Birthday Bash last month. If you didn't get a copy then, you can get it now, but ONLY from All Romance eBooks!

BLURB:Vic Braunson is looking forward to a quiet Saturday with his lover, Matt diLorenzo, before their upcoming Super Bowl party. But when a trio of ruffians terrorize Vic's landlady in the grocery store parking lot, he finds the superhero in him called to action.

EXCERPT:The rev of motorcycle engines flared and three small bikes zoomed behind them, the last one so close that Vic felt his jacket tug in the biker’s wake. Harsh laughter rose from the three young men, helmet-less, who goosed the bikes around the edge of the parking lot. ::Fucking idiots,:: Vic thought, projecting the thought not only into his lover’s mind but those of the bikers’, as well.

If it bothered them, they didn’t show it.

The bikes revved as they circled the lot, zipping between parked cars and shooting across aisles with dangerous moves that made Vic’s stomach nauseous. They frightened the Spanish-speaking woman from the freezer aisle, heading for her car now, who stopped to clutch her small children closer as the bikers closed in. Vic felt something surge in him, something terrible, something deadly, and in his pocket, his hands curled into angry fists. ::Give me one reason…::

Then the first bike in the trio broke off from his friends, angling through the cars in the lot, heading for Mrs. K. Like rambunctious children, the other two bikes trailed after the first, engines gunning. ::Now it does.::

Monday, February 11, 2008

I did not know if I was going to be able to make my scheduled post today. The power has been off and on for the last twenty-four hours, and it was pretty much dead for about thirteen of them. Thankfully, power was finally restored at one am this morning.

With all that time to sit around in the dark, I did a lot of reading (thank goodness for flashlights) and thinking about what people used to do before electricity was invented. You never really think about how much power you use until it's gone and you're stuck roaming around the house with glass lanterns. I managed to scare the hell out of myself with a Bentley Little book, and then hid under the covers so the boogey man wouldn't get me. :)

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Okay, so I was writing a sex scene yesterday for the current work in progress, The Happy Onion. I was trying to work out the logistics of the manlovin' so they wouldn't do anything physically impossible. Naturally, I turned to online porn for help. And I learned something.

There is a surprising dearth of porn involving short guys giving it to taller guys. Especially face-to-face, in the "legs over shoulders" position. Why is this??? I KNOW I'm not the only one who wants to see that, dammit.

So y'all help me out here. Where, oh where, does a girl find video of a little cute guy pounding a man eight inches taller than him through the mattress? I need it!Purely for research purposes, of course O_O

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Sick days, for me, normally consist of keeping my lazy butt in bed, swigging lemon/honey tea and surfing the net for porn. The wonders of wireless internet and a laptop.

Today, however, is one of those Casa De Buchanan days. No porn…Scooby Doo. The six year old (known as Princess, She Who Rules the World) has a fever. The Cat, Mr. Rose (this is the foreshortened version of his name which at last count had six words) is sneezing and the dog, Ponchito, is merely taking advantage of the three other creatures all in the same bed. At least I still have the tea.

Mr. Rose and Ponchito, btw, are the epitome for the strangeness which is my life. It is odd to have a cat and a dog who will come within 50’ of each other, much less pile on a bed. Both are neutered males. They have, however, for a great long had a “relationship” in the anything but biblical sense. Or the completely biblical sense…if you get my drift.

Ponchito swings both ways, a fact that doesn’t seem to bother Mr. Rose any more than the whole interspecies aspect of their unconventional partnership. Ponchito has a regular side thing going for the Lady Dog…Amazons are apparently his preference in the female of his own species. Lady Dog is three of him stacked feet to back.

Mr. Rose possesses his own brand of fetish. He’s a plushy freak. We often discover Princess’s stuffed animals in a disheveled state, usually still in the ass up-nose down position. Sometimes there’s two, three or even four side by side. If you hide them, Mr. Rose will track down his “favorites” (a bear and two cat plushies) although when they’re unavailable he might just latch onto the pony or a stuffed dog. Trust me, this is not the sight you want confronting you when you’re bleary eyed at 4:30am and hunting up the first cup of Joe.

Maybe I should go back to sleep. My mind gets too weird when I’m sick.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Writing in a vacuum sucks like, well, like a Dyson. If you want to know how much it sucks, I could offer my first-ever completed manuscript as evidence, but fortunately it’s only available on faded dot matrix paper and cannot be pulled up on any computer made in the last two decades.

As the complex civilizations of dust bunnies currently evolving in my house can attest, I am now vacuum free. Now when I write, I have Hos. That would be my critique group. We are to say the least, a motley crew, representing historical, paranormal, fantasy, contemporary, sweet and erotica.

After forming a few years ago, we decided we needed added incentive, so we started putting money on our goals. If you don’t meet your goal, you pay up. The cash is held in escrow by a legendary figure who inspires awe in—well, in those of us who are also science fiction geeks. Since we have to pay the man and meet our quotas, we decided to call ourselves the Hos. We do have a much more official sounding name, should any of us ever be making that acknowledgement speech as we accept the Rita or the Golden Heart, but really we’re just hard-working hos.

Our emblem is a hoe, spray painted gold. (It was that or a dildo. I wonder whose suggestion that was?) The hoe is passed from ho to ho, based on achievement or need. This month, it came to me. Not for merit, alas. As I discussed the way my muse had given me an unsolvable problem three-fourths of the way into my current WIP, one of my critique partners said with profound sympathy, “Oh, honey, you are so screwed.” She awarded me the Golden Hoe, since I will need all the help I can get if I’m going to resolve this conflict, meet my goal, and not have to pay the man.

It now glitters next to my desk. I wonder if I can use the hoe on my muse?

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

So I was pondering what to blog about today—soundtracks, favorite settings, recurring themes…That was when I realized these were all connected.Here's why.

My soundtrack is usually Food Network.It's either that or the white noise of my favorite coffee shop.My favorite settings tend to be pubs, restaurants, dining halls, kitchens.My recurring theme—aside of course from the usual stuff that you'd expect from steamy slashy goodness—is food.

See the connection?;)I love to cook.Maybe that influenced me to write about food; I know that's what causes me to watch Food Network.Or did the Food Network cause me to focus on food in my fiction?Maybe it's because we always had dinner together as a family when I was a kid that I feel most things are best discussed around the table and that the table must be loaded with food.Whatever the case, I love to put my characters at the dining table.

Do you have any favorite settings or themes?Places you send your character when you need some exposition?Of course, food has the added benefit of being good for both conversation and foreplay.Maybe that's why I like it so much.::ponders naked boys and spiced maple syrup::I think I need to get back to work now.;D

Monday, February 4, 2008

Night Owl Romance is hosting 2008 Winter N.O.R Reader Choice Awards for Best Erotic E-Book Covers. The covers they have up are superb. My book cover for Bonded Hearts is among the Best Fantasy/Futuristic/Off-Worlder cover! *doing happy dance*Christine Griffin did an awesome job.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

So, it's Superbowl Sunday here in the US, which means men everywhere are gearing up to drink a lot of beer and watch the big game. Don't get me wrong, there are probably women watching too, but I think they're less about the actual sport and more about watching men in tight pants give each other "good game" pats on the butt.

I mean, um. Just me? Okay then. *blush*

Happy Superbowl. I'll be on my couch with the spinach dip, waiting for funny commercials and hopefully a butt-pat here and there.